The Good Brother
by Darth Gilthoron
Summary: One-shot, based partially on the comics. There were two Judges named Dredd once, Joe and Rico, twin brothers cloned from the same DNA. Until one of them fell as far as a Judge can fall...


One of the wardens has slipped it to him, a crumpled scrap of thin paper. He has pocketed it without looking; one can get in trouble for pretty much everything here, after all. Only now, in the seeming solitude of his cell, he pulls it from his pocket again and in the dim light from outside reads what turns out to be a snippet from a newspaper.

His brother. Again his brother. Fighting his way through a whole block full of enemies this time, with just one rookie as backup. Destroying an entire criminal organisation single-handedly. Wiping out a handful of corrupt Judges sent to kill him. Coming back out almost unharmed. His brother, the hero.

He reads it once more, then carefully places it with the other press cuttings on the narrow shelf above his cot, those precious few he has managed to collect over the years. Some have pictures, and one even shows his brother, but he is in full uniform, his face hidden by his helmet. The name on the badge can be deciphered, though, when he strains his eyes. DREDD. His brother's name. His own name.

It could have been me, he thinks as he leans back against the cold concrete wall. It _should_ have been me.

Why, Joe? Why? How could you do this to me? Your own brother!

At least I broke your black little heart, Joey boy. Oh yes, I broke it alright. He feels a sneer twist his lips.

And when I get out of here, my boy, when I get back... I'm gonna break your neck, too.

Something wells up in him at that thought, from the pit of his stomach, something that clenches his muscles and shakes him. He is laughing, he realises, laughing like a madman – or is he sobbing? He does not quite know. The fit dissipates like clouds back on Earth, and he slumps back against the wall, feeling tired and empty.

Has his time finally arrived, is he going mad? Another question he knows no answer to. Sometimes everything feels clear, and sometimes he finds himself drifting away. He clings to every scrap of rational thought he can muster when it happens, repeats the multiplication tables in his head, the alphabet, the penal code, anything from his time at the Academy that comes back to mind, until he feels he has reached safe harbour again. The concept of losing his mind frightens him, more than anything else he can think of. And yet some of the old inmates, those serving a life sentence in the colony, claim that madness is bliss, that it delivers a man's spirit from all the hardship and toil... He doubts it. How can an afflicition of the mind cure the afflictions of the body? To forget, though, to forget might be a blessing...

"I won't go mad", he says aloud. "I won't go mad!" He will not spend the rest of his life here, and he needs his mind to remain sharp for when he gets back. "I won't go mad!" he snarls. His voice sounds rough, rougher than he remembers it from back in those happy days, back at the Academy and then his brief time on the streets. Has the colony done this to him, too? Or does his brother's voice sound the same now?

How much he would give to hear his brother's voice again! And how he wants to choke it out of him... to see the light fade out of those self-righteous eyes of his... eyes just like his own... The light flares up in him, the rage – and suddenly he is not sure whom he is trying to smother and suffocate in his feverishly racing mind, his brother or himself.

No, he will not go mad. He will stay sane, and strong, he will bide his time, and he will return. He musters all his willpower and forces the sputtering flames down, drowns them in the iron calm of determination. "Drown it", he hears himself mutter, "drown..."

Rising from his cot, he picks up the dented pewter pitcher from its place on the small rickety plastic table – a recently acquired luxury, earned by good conduct – and takes a long swig. The water tastes stale, but at least it is water. Moistening his fingers, he runs his hands over his face and through his short-cropped dark hair. Only once a week they are allowed to shower, and he has to conserve what water he is given. No, there will be no drowning. He quietly chuckles at the thought.

How does his brother wear his hair, it flashes through his head, a little longer than him, or even a lot longer? Or does he keep it close-cropped, like they had to in their early times as cadets, like the inmates here have it cut every two weeks?

He pulls his frayed shirt over his head and tosses it onto the table carelessly. In the weak light that comes in through the grille in the ceiling, he looks down himself, and he experiences one of the rare touches of satisfaction that remain to him. Yes, he is still strong. His muscles are hard and well-defined as ever. The colony may threaten to break his mind, his sanity, but it has not succeeded in breaking his body, and it never will.

Maybe I've even grown stronger than you, Joey dearest. We will see. One day, we will.

But then again... I always was stronger. He smiles to himself. As long as they were together, Joe has always stood in his shadow. Outwardly the same to the last detail, he still surpassed his brother in most things, not by a large margin, but constantly. Of course, sometimes Joe scored better results. But most of the time, it was him. Their instructors had such great hopes in him, while Joe... Joe was a back-up to them, a somewhat flawed copy of magnificent Rico Dredd, the perfect twin.

With me out of the way, Joe... you are the best.

"Is that what you wanted?" he mutters, clenching his fists as fury surges up in him. He lets it flow through him, fills every fibre of his body with iridescent liquid fire. To the little camera in the ceiling, he must glow now, a deep ruby red –

Cursing to himself, he crosses the small cell in four strides. Madness. It's coming for me. In the corner near the door, he unties his pants and empties his bladder into the drain hole – that it is the only kind of sanitation his cell offers does not bother him, he rather is grateful for the luxury of it not being located directly opposite his bed, and that he does not have to share it with three or more others, like in the beginning. There is very little luxury a man labelled as a bent Judge can expect in the penal colony. He closes his eyes and lets it all seep out of him, the anger, the pain, the poison. Deep beneath, there is icy calm, the peace of the brave. Deep beneath, he still is an eagle, and he soars. Nothing, nothing can rip Rico Dredd from the skies. Not even his accursedly pure-hearted brother's betrayal.

He takes another swig from the water jug, then kicks off his boots and stretches out on his cot, his fingers interlaced beneath his head. Beyond the colony's dome, he can faintly see the stars in the immaculate black of empty space. The same stars that shine on Earth, and just as far away. The same stars that shine on his brother.

Always on my mind, Joe, aren't you? He grimaces.

But then again, wasn't his brother one of his chief concerns back on Earth? They used to share everything. They voiced each other's thoughts and dreams. They stood by each other, whatever happened. They loved each other, unconditionally.

When did that change, Joey, my love? When did you decide to betray me? Since when have you been planning to become the one and only Dredd? His anger swirls around him like a black storm cloud. He used to think that his brother was all he had, and now it turns out his brother still is. His brother is the one thing that keeps him focused, that keeps him wanting to come back. His treacherous brother has turned into an obsession, a taunting, sneering obsession wearing his own face.

Is that still Joe's face, too? Is it?

Sometimes, when he is sent to work indoors, instead of in the quarry or the mines, he gets permission to have the little bathroom to himself for ten minutes, to have a proper wash with warm water. Those are the only times when he sees himself in a mirror. And then he stares at himself and wonders if he is looking into his brother's eyes still.

Does his brother do the same, sometimes? Or has he forgotten him?

"If you've forgotten me", he mutters, floating inside the billowing storm cloud in his head, "if you've dared to forget me, you vile little bastard..."

Part of him that somehow remains detached from his bath in the inky cloud of anger knows that Joe hasn't. How could he ever? That part of him remembers not only his own pain, but his brother's, too. That part remembers how his brother, his _good_ brother, turned his head and closed his eyes for months, desperately pretending he could not see the things he was too honest, too weak to take part in. How he pleaded with him, instead of reporting him. His brother's face in front of the commission, pale and carved from stone, except his trembling lower lip, his toneless voice, almost too soft to hear... And how his sweet little brother, the loving fool, even secretly offered to take his place, his fall, if only he promised to stay on the straight path of the righteous and good.

What happened to me... your part in it... it tore your heart right out of your chest. He feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. And I took it with me, into the darkness and the emptiness, while you had to go on without a heart, dead inside...

Darling Joey, the good boy... a heartless monster? He chuckles to himself. Seeing that is something he would somehow appreciate greatly.

I might even have killed you, in a way. Maybe you're not the good twin anymore. Maybe you're just as bad as me by now.

The stars twinkle through the blackness inside him. They couldn't care less about Rico Dredd, about how far he has fallen. They make him feel so small, so very insignificant. He does not matter. And neither does the rage, or the pain. There is no point to any of it. Whatever he does, whatever he feels, there is no point to it.

If he ever gets home, will it even matter?

He crawls under the thin blanket and pulls it around him, tries to find a comfortable position on the hard, lumpy excuse for a mattress. When he closes his eyes, he is back home, with his brother. All those years have been eradicated. He is whole again. They both are. His brother's shoulder is warm under his cheek. "Tell me it's alright, Joe", he whispers. "Please. Tell me it's alright."

And then he tears him limb from limb and wallows in his blood, reborn as the one, the only, the victorious twin. Rejoice, for the self-righteous traitor, the good brother, has finally been conquered, and has yielded his throne! Revenge, the one cause that remains. The one light and joy that he lives for. He laughs to himself until his throat feels sore.

But part of Rico Dredd weeps, alone in the darkness. For all the things he has thrown away. For all he has lost.

* * *

Dressed just in his old track pants, ready for bed, he is leaning on the window sill with his forearms and looking up at the clear sky, at the pale stars above the city's twisted soaring spires and reaching arms and tentacles. The city never sleeps, and it never is quite dark. Only once before has he seen the stars in all their radiant brilliance: out in the Cursed Earth, miles from human habitation of any kind. Out there, the stars were so clear that he could discern myriads, that the Milky Way was a fine band of light across the night sky. It was one of the most beautiful things he has ever seen.

It was the night before his brother took a bullet for him.

He sighs and turns away from the open window. Time for bed. The medics have not cleared him for duty yet, so he can sleep as long as he likes, but he truly needs the rest. He has not recovered his full strength yet, and it irks him to no end.

As he stretches out comfortably on his bed, his fingers interlaced beneath his head, that day long ago resurfaces in his memory. His brother, his brave, marvellous brother, saving his life. Rico was his hero, then, of course – but then again, when hasn't Rico been his hero, back in their Academy days?

But what later became of him...

Never in his life has he loved anyone the way he has loved his brother. They were one heart, one soul, one and the same man... until the horrible day he realised that he could no longer squeeze his eyes shut to those things he had until then refused to see. Losing Rico has shattered his world, has shattered himself, and from the ruins he has returned harder, and colder.

Could I have survived Peach Trees, he idly wonders, had Rico still been there?

Fool, he tells himself. Of course you could have. You would still have had your training and your experience. Though truth be told – and he smiles a little at the thought –, Rico would probably have done better than you, as usual.

And together, we would have been unstoppable.

We were only truly whole when we were together.

From time to time he places a discreet inquiry with the prison department. His brother has betrayed everything he used to stand for, but he cannot wipe him from his mind, he simply cannot. Apparently his twin is in good condition, healthy and strong, and apparently he accepts his punishment quietly. Has it changed him? Has he seen the error of his ways? Or – and this thought horrifies him, more than any drug baron and his army of henchmen ever could – is he simply biding his time, all the while hatching plans for what atrocities he will commit once he is free?

After all those years, he still misses Rico, he still wants him to be there with him, despite all that happened. And yet... he fears the day Rico will return home, fears what he might have become... fears what he could become himself.


End file.
